


Water Your Dreams

by amireal, Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Boats and Ships, First Time, M/M, Porn, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 06:02:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amireal/pseuds/amireal, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It didn't occur to me until later that you actually meant a boat."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Water Your Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by mecurtin, who we can't thank enough. Mistakes are still ours.
> 
> Dedicated to the The Flan, who manages to look inspiring in just about everything. [Especially near boats.](http://amireal.livejournal.com/748421.html?style=mine#cutid1)

He doesn't wear the new insignia but he can still feel them, bright and shiny against the tops of his shoulders, when he thinks about it—which he does more than he'll ever admit. It's all for a good cause, though: there were plenty of people who thought he'd never even make Captain. Promotion to Major is like kicking dirt in all their faces.

Especially a few in particular.

The image of his father’s letter—complete with the swift kicked-in-the-stomach feeling that it was his secretary who had prompted the letter—swims up in his mind and he quickly pushes it away. His father is his father, still just as bitter as a winter storm, and that has no place here.

Wandering down the street, John takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. This is his vacation, his own little party. He'd celebrated with the guys, of course, but that was mostly face time, things newly-promoted officers do to make sure everybody’s happy. Now he's on leave and all he's got is himself: why not be someone else for a while? The boat, a gleaming, sleek affair that had been labeled ‘luxury yacht’ in sprawling gold letters on the brochure and waiting patiently back at the marina, is just the right amount of irony, all things considered.

Getting the boat leads to supplies, and along with the quantities of beer and a nice cut of fish to grill, he finds himself at a clothing store, a polo and the loose, familiar khakis he'd worn all his life appearing as if by magic. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror as he leaves and can't help but smirk. It’s not the trappings he’s resigned himself to wanting, but the way the cashiers eyes are following every move he makes.

It's relaxing, slipping into this world he still knows. It’s not one he wants, necessarily, and if he were forced into it permanently, he would resent it so fast something would sprain. But visiting is nice. 

He feels open in strange ways, a little unprotected and naked, but easier going than he's felt in months. It's almost reckless the way he smiles, wide and happy and probably halfway to indecent.

Something about the way his hips resettle, shoulders opening like the wings of a butterfly, attracts attention. Women always smile at him—now they move forward, a magnetic half-step, hands lifting like they can't help but want to touch. That's familiar, too. The guys in his unit would be falling all over themselves to get the notice of these summer beauties, but John just smiles and goes on his way.

He's got a fish in his cooler, lime juice, and a beer. He's got everything he needs.

And if his family ever finds out about it—and they might, it's not above his father to do a little credit-checking—they'll never believe it.

That thought settles pleasantly in John's stomach and causes a little flutter of happiness. It's not healthy, but the idea rolls around satisfyingly in his mind and he feels anonymous and just different enough that everything is fresher, including the damn sea air.

The bakery practically draws him in, freshly-cooling chocolate-something wafting out of its windows and into the careful spring breeze, curling around John's easy stride and directing him into the cool and shaded interior.

Cakes, cookies, breads, pastries are laid out artistically under lighted glass, a crowd staring at them with the same amount of avarice as John. Over the years, he’s lost the names of some of the confections displayed, between his last catered party and now. That doesn't stop his mouth from remembering how they taste.

He's about to ask for four chocolate and cream things to be boxed up, thinking a good meal needs a real ending, when the guy next to him breathes out slowly and happily. Something in that breath catches John's attention and he turns to see broad shoulders and a cup of coffee.

"There's nothing like a bakery," the man says, too happy to modulate his tone or even care if he’s garnering an audience. His eyes, half hidden by outrageously long lashes, never leave the counter full of baked wonders. "I mean, of course, it might not compare to the perfection of a flawless proof that proves just how moronic Ashfield really is, or that new-lab smell, with minions just waiting to be cowed, but really, fresh coffee and heaps and heaps of sweet, bready heaven just waiting to be eaten. It can make even the worst days so much better."

"I take it this was a bad day?"

John's not sure why he said anything. Watching the man squawk and whirl around—somehow shifting his wrist in time to save his coffee from spilling; it's a damned deft maneuver—broad shoulders heaving in fright is pretty damned worth it, though. He’s always had a type, and a smart mouth is at the top of the list. "Excuse me, didn't your parents ever teach you not to talk to strangers? I'm a stranger. Go back to your beach-bong."

The comment is funny enough to make John snort because the guy with the great lashes obviously isn't paying very much attention or doesn't really care or possibly doesn't really know, either way. The polo shirt and the kakis that cost just enough to embarrass John aren't really beach bong material.

"Just making conversation while I wait for my—" John pauses, licking his lips, looking for the right words, "dessert,” he finishes almost lamely.

The guy's high cheek bones go pink and he takes a nervous sip of coffee, bending his head back and tilting the cup, revealing a long clean line of neck that John finds satisfying to look at. Dangerous, but satisfying.

"Yes, well. Just remember that I was here first. It's sad enough that I actually have to wait while these— _children_ ," the word comes out as a polite version of a sneer, the man gesturing to a group of excited kids smearing their fingerprints all over the glass as they choose their favorite, "occupy an astronomically huge amount of time in my life. I'm certainly not allowing you to play high school cuts-ies."

There's ire there, but mostly John reads a strange level of shyness. Reading people isn't something he excels at, most of the time. Or even any of the time. This guy makes it easy, as guileless as the children he'd so eagerly dismissed. It's ... nice. John's played the game for so long that he forgets there are people who never learned the rules.

"Graduated from high school a while ago," he says with the same level of intent. "College, too."

"Let me guess, Bermuda U?"

John shoves his hands in his pockets and tilts his head, trying not to grin. "Nah, Bermuda State. My high school transcripts screamed ‘slacker’, according to my guidance counselor."

That makes Eyelashes blush harder, shifting slightly away, and John feels a wave of inappropriate affection and panic that he might actually walk away. He really doesn't want that. "You got a favorite bread?" John blurts out. Or at least, feels like he's blurting.

"What?" Lips press together firmly and make a crooked line across Eyelashes' face. His entire body switches gears and no longer looks ready to run.

"I'm cooking dinner and I thought some bread would be nice." John points to the delicious and flaky looking wall behind the counter, holding a multitude of differing brown hues. He waits, holding his breath, not sure why this feels so precarious, watching with slowly rising happiness as Eyelashes unfurls a finger from around his mug and points to the right. 

"That one."

John nods, glancing at the girl behind the counter to seal the choice. He has no idea what kind of bread's been picked and really doesn't give a damn: bread is bread, but Eyelashes is staying where he is. Shifting nervously from side to side, practically wringing his hands, but still staying. John's learned to appreciate the smaller victories.

"You, ah, also mentioned dessert. I believe something with chocolate is normally appreciated," Eyelashes says.

John smiles easily, pointing at treats all the way on the left under the glass. "I'd been planning on a few of those." God, if he could remember their names he'd feel less stupid. All he knows is that he can eat them in three bites and they're absolutely decadent and have never failed to be the perfect cherry on top of the most horrendous events. 

"Oh," Eyelashes sighs, "those are really good, I had them a few weeks ago. I'm slowly working through each dessert, but I remember really liking those." His eyes go a little soft, like he's reliving the eating experience right there.

"Six." John says, his voice a little deep and rough, "of those." The lady behind the counter is already putting some in a box, so she just nods and continues to count.

"Far be it for me to comment about indulgence," Eyelashes murmurs, still kind of far away, "but that's really living it up."

"I was thinking of sharing." John says absently. Only after the words have left his mouth does he realize he's said them and that he had actually been thinking of sharing.

"Oh." Eyelashes suddenly straightens with a deep breath, like he's waking up from something. A starch-induced daydream, maybe? "I was going to try those tarts, myself, but I think I see an orange slice. You," he snaps, glaring at a harried-looking teen, already half-turned to help someone else, "are there any citrus products on those tarts? Please double-check with the baker instead of just rattling off empty assurances. I am deathly allergic to citrus and you really don't want to deprive humanity of my genius." When the teen looks like she’s going to dismiss the issue and just box up the tarts, Eyelashes gives her a gimlet stare. "Also, my lawyer has instructions to file a wrongful-death suit."

The teen, scowling, trudges off just as John's server brings him a neatly tied box and sets it carefully next to his brown paper wrapped bread. She and John exchange money while Eyelashes continues to occasionally yell things back towards the teen.

Reluctantly John grabs his things but waits to see what Eyelashes does next. He's not sure what he's waiting for but then Eyelashes turns to face him and looks shuttered and weirdly reserved, in a loud sort of way.

"I hope you and your company enjoy the bread." Another nervous sip of coffee.

John's mother used to say _In for a penny, in for a pound._ He's never really understood that until now, but his stomach’s grown warmer and warmer in the last few minutes and he doesn’t want it to go away. "Actually," he says, nervously, "I don't really have company."  
"But I thought—" Eyelashes mouth tends to run away without him a lot, clearly. He's got half the sentence out before he regains control and closes his mouth, showing off a confused, almost wounded expression that does things to John's insides he doesn't quite understand.

"Sir. Sir!" The teen looks ready to reach out and shake Eyelashes, scowling even harder. "There's mandarin oranges in the tart, sir."

The opening is so blatant even Michaels, the most timid pilot John's ever seen, would've taken the shot. Mentally, John asks karma to just _once_ not bite him on the ass—and lifts his neatly wrapped box and waggles it. "Nothing but starch and sugar, here."

Eyelashes' mouth opens and closes a few times and then his eyes narrow into sharp, blue soaked glint. "...really?" pops out of his mouth before he shakes his head tightly and adds, "Be a shame to let them go stale." 

He looks more interested in the pastries than in John, but John can work with that. He shuffles to the left, allowing the next person in line place an order. "The Island Marina, slip 134, around 6:00." John pushes out before he can distract himself further or talk himself out of it and then lets the crowd wash him away. 

* * * *

He's halfway through the fish-prep before he realizes the problem. John's pretty sure no one ever died of eating a lime, but he does remember a few peanut allergies that were deadly through kissing.

As omens go, it's not a great one.

There's no way to guess whether Eyelashes will really show, so John compromises by running out and buying some mango salsa, not a squirt of lemon anywhere in the mix. It throws off his timing, though, leaving him cursing and flustered, nervous like he can't actively remember being in a damned long time, as he hurries to get everything stowed and away. There’s no way of knowing if, or more importantly _when_ , he might have company.

He hears Eyelashes before he sees him.

"It didn't occur to me until later that you _actually_ meant a boat."

John wipes his hands down nervously and heads out of the kitchen and down the dark wood corridor to the stairs up to the main deck. Eyelashes is still on the dock observing his little piece of paradise with a wary eye.

He came. And now that he’s here, John can’t stop staring at him: he’s not a pretty man, but there’s something about the way his blue eyes light up when he sees John that’s incredibly compelling.

"I'm on vacation," John says apropos of nothing, an explanation he feels bubble out of his chest with no provocation.

Eyelashes gives him a look and John shivers under the intensity, but then it lets up and Eyelashes shrugs. "How do I get onto this thing?"

John takes a few steps to the over the ramp and offers his hand.

Eyelashes dismisses every rule of politeness John's ever learned and _sniffs_ , loudly and pointedly, before taking John's hand. "Is this some kind of test for potential dinner-companions? See how gracefully they scramble up this death-trap of a plank?"

The 'plank' in question is a sturdy ramp made of metal and wide enough for three men. "Sure is. Don't you have standards?" That's a slip and John hurriedly adds, "Forgot to ask your name, and it doesn't seem polite to keep calling you 'Eyelashes'."

"...eyelashes?" That seems to daze and confuse him enough that he walks up the length of the ramp without complaint, until he's standing directly in front of John and frowning at him slightly.

"Would you prefer 'Hey you'?"

Eyelashes continues to frown as John hauls up the ramp and stows it neatly.

"Hi," John says quietly, when he’s done, "John Sheppard." He offers a hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Doctor Rodney McKay," Eyelashes— _Rodney_ —says automatically. Then he blinks, shakes his head and offers a sheepishly adorable smile. Yes, John is man enough to think 'adorable'. "Uh, that is, Rodney. Hi. It's good to meet you."

John's probably never met someone as socially maladapted as Rodney and, strangely, it puts him further at ease. It's hard to be uptight when Rodney's nervous enough for three. "Welcome to the _Whimsy_." He smirks, adding, "It's a rental. I didn't pick the name."

Their hands are still clasped and John likes Rodney's hand, broad and soft with calluses around the edges.

"When people talk about renting boats I never picture boats quite this—large," Rodney says. He looks like he's on autopilot. "There's a Jacuzzi on this thing isn't there?"

The question makes John a little uncomfortable. It's meant as admiration, probably, but wealth is never something John’s wanted to be admired for. Smiling disarmingly, he asks, "Do you smell papayas?"

"Hm? Oh, yes, the sunscreen, sorry. Unfortunately, I'm out of my own formula, but you said boat and you can see how fair I am, so I went out and bought the strongest available. The smell is retched, but it's... non-toxic... If I'd had more time... "  
Eyelashes seems fascinated by something between them, and with a jolt, John realizes they've been holding hands the entire time. Comfortably. "Sunscreen," he repeats stupidly, then shakes himself. Giving Eyelashes' hand a final squeeze, he reluctantly lets go. "I hope you like fish."   
"I'm alle—"

"To citrus, yes, I got that." John smiles hugely, he can't help it; this is fun and easy and god, he kind of really needs it.

Rodney looks around with interest as he moves further onboard, blue eyes sweeping over everything and cataloging it effortlessly. "You remembered, I'm impressed. Most of the time I have to say it over and over, otherwise people don't really pay attention. Do you know how many things have lemon in them? You'd think people would actually know the ingredients of the things they eat, but no, of course not, Americans are all sheep and just put anything in their mouths."

John watches, fascinated, as the red hue on Rodney's cheeks grows abruptly darker. So, powerful lungs and at least _some_ awareness of the innuendo that hovers around them like smoke.

It's a thought, abrupt and incredibly visceral, to just kiss him, wait long enough until they're under cover and then press Rodney against one of those dark walls, pale skin contrasting nicely, then just kiss his way into Rodney's mouth until it falls open slack and wanting and Rodney's entire body curls around him.

John can’t remember the last time he’s wanted someone so immediately.

But the moment passes and Rodney is already talking about the next thing. "Today was a very strange day."

"Oh?" He heads towards the controls, staring at them for a moment. He hasn’t actually taken the boat out yet, and for tonight to work he wants to be far away from a busy marina. Still, John’s good with controls of any kind and finds, much like riding a bike, the memories guide his hands without much interference from his brain.

Rodney carefully ducks his head as he follows, then pauses, watching through the open windows as the boat skims over the water, navigating easily through the Sound. "Well, being hit on by preppy boys in the bakery isn't exactly a part of my routine."

"Preppy? On behalf of Oxfords everywhere, I'm offended. Plus,” he points to his shirt, “this is a polo. See the little horsey?" He’s already got a destination in mind: a shallow inlet that isn’t as pretty as some others, and usually left alone because of it. He’d been there once before and remembers the way tall, reaching trees had muffled the rest of the world, leaving them wrapped in sun and silence.

It’s close, too, and after only ten minutes or so he lets the engine go idle, sputtering its unhappiness as it slows down. The inlet is just as empty as he’d hoped. 

John takes out two beers, wagging them at Rodney until he nods a confirmation. 

Rodney takes the stillness as opportunity to look him up and down in the heavy, late afternoon sunlight. John can feel him take in his khaki pants, his dark polo shirt, almost tanned arms and face, and the flush that surfaces all over as Rodney spends several long moments just looking.

"You're not offensive, just preppy." Rodney's half smile is catching.

John's own smile stretches wide and he leans over to give Rodney an elbow to the arm, noting how he can feel the warmth through Rodney's shirt. Instead, he backs away and heads toward the kitchen, a bright place full of windows. "My day's been pretty strange too."

"Don't tell me it's strange that people actually accept your dinner invitations," Rodney says as he gingerly sits down on one of the deck-chairs. The bright orange coloring had been one of the few detractions of the boat—who has _bright orange_ deck chairs, let alone inside?—but John's willing to revise that thought. So long as Rodney's in them. "That's more along the lines of _my_ strange day."

The grill is electric, a necessity when cooking in an enclosed space. John clicks it on, aware of Rodney's gaze on him. "I'm not really in the habit of offering many."

Rodney seems stunned into silence at that so John busies himself laying the vegetables on the grill. He feels almost too open tonight, Rodney makes it easy to share, whether it's the man's own open face or the fact that John feels like he's playing a role he doesn't know the lines for. Only he doesn't want to play the role anymore. Hidden away from the rest of the world, John suddenly feels reckless, filled with longings he usually represses as inappropriate in his life. He wants to tell Rodney things, whisper secrets in his ear, maybe give in to the simmering hints of _want_ he’s felt since the bakery, sink to his knees and just suck him off without a thought and then look back and take in his flushed face and blown out eyes.

"Thank you," Rodney says and that startles John's eyes off the slowly browning zucchini.

Rodney's smile is crooked and soft, hinting at too many things. "I'm an astrophysicist who's more known for his ability to reduce grown men to tears. Surprisingly, that's less of a turn-on than it should be."

He means it, too; it's easy to read genuine surprise and confusion, like he still doesn't understand the logic that leaves him wanting. John has to turn away for a moment, concentrate on the bitter wash of beer as he drinks. Knowledge, intelligence, they've always been turn-ons for him, and Rodney's openness is dangerously addictive.

"Their loss, then."

"Yes it is." Rodney agrees and it's mostly not bluster. Mostly. 

John checks the vegetables and does a little math and decides they need a few more minutes before adding the fish. "I hope you like the local food."  
"Local?" Rodney says, swallowing a sip of beer that leaves his lips damp and inviting.

"Local." John shrugs. "I've been around and always thought it was stupid to stick with what you can get at home. The vegetables are from that farmer's market on 6th and the fish from around these parts as well."

"Then it should be fresh, I suppose?" He offers a smile when John looks at him. "I'm not exactly a food connoisseur."

"Allergies?" John guesses. The zucchini are starting to turn soft and wet-looking, which means it's time. "That'd probably make fine dining a problem. Too many chefs bitch when you ask what's in their stupendous creations."

"Um. Yes, exactly."

He doesn't quite ask the question but John can hear it in the uplift of his voice. That's as expressive as his face, and John can't help but wonder if he's a talker. Would he be loud, babbling a narration that's frantic, maybe, or low and certain, dark with need and pleasure... either one sends a zing of anticipation down John’s spine.

The white slab of fish sizzles enticingly as John places it carefully on the grill. To the right is a small electric stove with a single pot on top, and he turns the heat up a notch to make sure the potatoes will be just the right temperature. 

"Smells good," Rodney murmurs and John is hit by a wall of warmth as he realizes that Rodney moved when he wasn't looking. Now he stands behind and to the right of John, peering intently at the grill. John breathes deep, getting hints of garlic and spice and the light waft of aftershave that makes his knees weak.

"I like cooking fish," he says, babbling only a little. He should at least be able to get through dinner, right? Even if Rodney seems to be caught up in the same kind of _now_ that John is. "It's quick, easy."

"True."

There are big hands suddenly cupping his shoulders, turning him into a soft kiss, laced with hesitancy that's belied the flick of tongue against his lower lip, a promise of heat that has John's head reeling.

"It's also good cold, right?" Rodney asks.

John resists for about three seconds and then dives in for another kiss, closed mouthed and even sweet, but dangerously incendiary none the less. It skitters down his nerves, electric and hot. "Yeah," he whispers, voice wrecked. "Need to finish cooking it first."   
"Hmm?" Rodney's eyes are glazed, pupils blown a little wide. "Oh, yes." 

John turns back to the grill and feels Rodney plaster himself to his back, sliding arms around his waist.

Everything slows down, each individual sizzling pop taking far too many seconds. Rodney's hands are linked over his stomach and each breath reinforces just how strong those hands are, warm and _there_ , tempting John to say fuck it and hope the grill doesn't burn the boat around them.

The prick of stubble against his neck and cheek is driving him _crazy._

"Almost done," he breathes, willing the damn fish to cook, already.

Rodney hmms something and moves even closer. "No rush." His voice shivers more with nerves than intent, but John's willing to be selective.

There's a searing hotness burning into his ass moving with Rodney's hips, pressing into him like a brand. His hands shake as he flips the fish.

Rodney noses into the skin under his hair line, breathing gently. "This is a little surreal," he says in a hushed voice, like speaking too loud would ruin the spell.

John responds by rocking backwards, nudging his ass more firmly against the cradle of Rodney's hips. "Surreal is not a problem."

"Oh, I didn't say _problem_." Rodney's chuckle slides all the way down John's spine, buzzing into his chest until he has to work not to gasp. "Observation indicates neither approval or disapproval."

John's eyes are shut. When did that happen? "Doesn't feel like disapproval," he rasps, rocking again.

"S'not." Rodney slurs, distracted. He tightens his arms around John's hips.

"Soon," John says to himself as much as Rodney. The fish is white and flakey all over and he reminds himself that food will probably be essential when they're done in a few hou—Rodney rocks into him again and John nearly drops the spatula—minutes. God. He flips the hotplate to low and hopes the potatoes don't burn, the vegetables going back to their little container.

"Tell me you're done. Or at least that you can multitask."

That startles a laugh, one that breaks off quickly when Rodney's fingers rake up his thighs. "Almost done." His hands tremble alarmingly over a hot grill, but somehow John manages to slide the whole piece atop the vegetables, and then all of it into the small fridge to the side.  
Of course, he has to bend to accomplish that small act.

Rodney's groan is rough, just like the hands that yank him upright and around, pushing until he's against a wall. It hurts, but the pain is distant, swept away in the fire of Rodney's mouth on his, kissing fast and wet and _eager._

John’s hands work spasmodically, barely keeping the coordination to find their way under Rodney’s shirt to feel warm skin, electric under his fingertips. They tangle in complex ways, Rodney with a hand on his hip, fingers pushing under his pants, his leg shoved between John’s, their arms clutching hard at each other. John’s head is buzzing with arousal and Rodney’s hot breaths against his skin make him shudder.

They’re out of control in a way that John didn't plan, but it feels really good and John just wants to stay there forever, kissing into Rodney’s mouth, pushing and pulling and feeling the weight of him against his aching cock.

Rodney touches him through the kisses, rubbing his shirt against skin that prickles with _almost, almost, not quite_. Sometimes it's hard, a scrape of nails against the soft skin of his waist, the rasping sound of skin against skin sexy, desired, as John hunts it out under the wet, frantic noises of their lips pressing together. Rodney's hands are moving up, John realizes dimly, spreading John out like a blanket under summer's sky, warming and gentling him.

Until they reach his face.

Rodney's still kissing him, but that's secondary to the feather-light trace over John's eyebrows and cheekbones, the jut of his nose and the long lines of jaw, over his neck and—

He gasps, eyes wide and unseeing as white swirls through his vision. "Do that again."

"What, this?" Rodney weaves his fingers back into John's hair, tugging lightly. The shock of it goes right through John, leaving him trembling. "More?"

John moans, legs spreading even as he says, "Yeah. Harder."

Rodney tugs firmly, moving John's head, tilting it and holding it as he kisses dirty and messy. John shudders through all of it and brings one of his legs up to Rodney's hips and grinds.

"S-shit," Rodney stutters, groaning as he shifts, cocks bumping together despite their clothes. "Off, get this—get it—"

It takes a few seconds for John to realize he means John’s shirt. A tight ball of sick surprise melts, warm all the way through, and John rips at the buttons to get it off faster. That makes Rodney laugh, "Ow, dammit, what is this, an attack shirt?", but then he's bending down, licking along John's collar bone and oh, _god._

John somehow manages to get a hand onto Rodney’s ass and squeezes tightly before pulling him in, guiding him into a punishing rhythm of rubbing. Rodney’s hand mirrors his, holding him tight, pulling him and pushing and his mouth stays where it is, a hot pinprick of pleasure on his chest sucking and licking and biting John into a frenzy of pleasure.

It's _good_ , that first frantic edge after it's been too damned long. Rodney's moving just as fast and hard against him, red-faced and powerful as he keeps John pinned against the wall. For a moment, John wants his mouth back, wants to try and taste how close he is, if he needs this as badly as John does, the push and pull of bodies that want nothing but relief.

If he thinks this is as good as John does.

Then Rodney hums something pleased against John's skin and oh, there's a hand inside his khakis, a finger pressing down and _in_ and John sees nothing at all but stars.

Words spill out of John as he shudders hard enough to shake Rodney loose for a few seconds, but he comes back warm and solid and out of control enough that John can see it through the end of his orgasm. Their hips continue to move, Rodney still seeking out his end while John seeks out the last of the pleasure, disarming aftershocks running through him.

Rodney kisses his way back up to John’s mouth and then latches on, kissing hungrily, almost feeding on him as his body goes tighter and tighter.

John sinks into the kisses, wrapping his arms around Rodney's back and hips until they're so flush together it almost hurts. He'll have garment-burn all over his stomach, probably, but John concentrates on widening his thighs, on tilting his head just right as Rodney kisses and kisses him. He'll ask Rodney to kiss the redness away, later, maybe return the favor if Rodney wants it.

"Yeah, come on," he murmurs when Rodney breaks away for a moment. "Lemme feel it, McKay."

He's not sure why he uses the last name, but like a switch, Rodney goes abruptly rigid, then relaxes with whoosh of air. For a moment, it's just the two of them, shivering as Rodney's aftershocks set off a few more of his own, leaning heavily against each other as their hearts stop thundering and their minds begin to settle.

This is where the awkwardness usually starts.

Usually.

Instead, Rodney drops a final kiss on his neck and leans back onto his own heels, eyes bright enough to rival the sky that frames him through the window. "Dinner?" he asks.

For that John has to kiss him again, a thank you, a pleased ‘I’m so glad I found you’ and a very careful ‘this was perfect’ all rolled up into a single happy kiss with just a hint of tongue. They pull apart and Rodney’s face is flushed and happy and sweaty. John smiles at him. “How about a quick change? I’ve got an extra pair of sweatpants.”

“Then food?” Rodney asks, lashes half closed over his eyes, getting him back to that shy look. 

John drags them down and into the back and they kiss a half dozen more times before he shoves some pants at Rodney and shows him to the bathroom. 

Rodney in John's sweatpants is a sight to remember.

"What?" Rodney asks, glancing down. "They aren't too tight."

No, they aren't, although why they aren't John doesn't know. He's always been long and lean, two things Rodney clearly isn't, since John can see everything from hip to ankle. All the musculature, heavy and potent with nothing but black fleece encasing it, and oh, when Rodney turns _around._

He can't actually believe he's had a hand on that ass. It's _perfect_ , and he can't wait to do more with it.

But that’s for later.

"Dinner," John says, and ignores the squeak in his voice.

He refuses to be embarrassed that the food is all still vaguely warm, proving exactly how little time they spent against that wall. He’s firmly into ignoring it when Rodney’s eyes go wide and happy as John makes up two heaping plates.

“Oh,” Rodney says after his first taste, like he hadn’t actually expected John to be more than a half assed cook, “this is—” he cuts himself off taking another bite.

"Well, thank you," John drawls, trying to be charming. It never works as well as when he just _is_ charming, no thinking required.

Unfortunately, his efforts are wasted. Rodney gives him a distracted nod, aware only of John's voice and clearly not the words he's spoken.

He's halfway through his portion of fish, and making serious inroads into the heap of potatoes. Rodney is a messy eater, quick and nimble like he's afraid the food is going to disappear, like maybe someone's going to take it away from him. That isn't a particularly happy thought, but it's one John doesn't dwell on.

Because Rodney is making _sounds_. Low sounds, soft and intense, humming through each bite, each glinting lift of fork or spoon. His face is open with bliss, beaming with something that looks like awe. For food. For food John had cooked.

He swallows, coughing around a stray pepper. He's just had sex with this man, and he didn't sound like _this._

He maybe, probably, could work on reproducing those sounds later tonight, or this weekend. John has an entire week off before reporting back to base. The idea feels delicious inside his own mind as he pokes at it and turns it over, knowing why it’s probably a very bad idea.

Rodney takes another bite and John resumes a slow and careful decimation of his own plate, feeling the hunger low and lazy in his belly, mixing with a new, slowly-burning arousal. The desserts are still carefully wrapped up under the counter, and imagining Rodney moaning his way through those sends a shiver down John’s spine.

“Bread?” Rodney asks suddenly.

It takes John a few seconds to understand, before feeling like a moron. “Oh! Right.”

The heady, starch-y smell mixes with the sea air as he slices nearly half the loaf, saving the end for himself. He likes how tough it is, a prelude to what waits within.

Which, come to think of it, is pretty much how this whole day has gone.

Rodney looks up abruptly—caught mid-moan over his bite of bread—and whatever he sees on John’s face, it makes him blush. Swallowing hastily, he says, "Ah, sorry. I'm sure you... " he trails off, glancing at John's plate: each pile of food neatly squared off and only half-eaten at best.

"Hey." It's easy, too easy, to reach across the table and lay a finger over Rodney's wrist where the pulse is banging away. "I'm glad you like it."

He doesn’t expect it but Rodney’s hand twists and wriggles. John lets his fingers go loose, thinking somehow he’d gone too far, but instead Rodney twines their hands together, only slightly awkwardly, smiles in a weird half tilt and nods. “I do. Like it. That is, the bread is. Good?”

John squeezes his hand and takes a bite of his own, flavor bursting over his tongue, texture filled with slightly salty and slightly sweet air and starch. “Mmhm.”

Rodney's mouth moves silently, a lower-lip wobble that translates into heat fizzing lightly beneath John's skin. Swallowing so loud it's nearly a gulp, Rodney drags his eyes up to John's mouth.

"Do I have something?" John teases, flicking his tongue out to run over his lips. He can't remember the last time he felt so _free_ to do this, indulging in all the half-dreamed fantasies he'd hidden away for so long, exposing them all to the setting sun and the constant call of seagulls. "Here?"

Rodney looks about ready to leap over the table but another forkful makes it to his mouth and he’s half distracted again. Only now he’s staring at John when he’s not making sure the food won’t fall off his fork. John continues to eat his own food—fortification is important in the planning of any invasion and oh yes, there will be invasions. Hopefully more than one. He doesn’t think about their hands, stretched over the small table, still holding tight.

Rodney eats faster and John matches the speed, pulled along like a tide far too powerful to swim against. He doesn't want to fight, which makes it all the better, and mostly he concentrates on not choking as one mouthful follows the next, or letting _Rodney_ choke.

The latter's more likely, and it says a lot about his state of mind that being called upon to help, curling around Rodney's body, hands tight against his chest, is verging on being a turn-on.

Finally, finally, Rodney's fork clatters onto his empty plate. "We don't need to clean up, do we?"

John pretends to think about that, like his mind isn't ringing with a resounding _no._ "Forgetting the rule about swimming? Gotta wait for a half hour."

Rodney goes from frown to confusion to frown to dawning understanding in about 3 seconds. It makes John a little dizzy. “Well,” Rodney draws the word out carefully, “we could watch a movie.”

“A movie huh?” John says slowly, like he’s thinking the idea through. “I wouldn’t want you to think I was a pig, being okay with leaving these dishes all over the place.”

"Trust me, if you ever saw my apartment, you wouldn't bother making statements like that," Rodney chuckles. The implied invitation is clearly not on his mind—John's sure of that because about five seconds _after_ Rodney finishes speaking, he starts to blush again.

It's really very pretty, that blush, and John wants to rub his face against it, maybe see if it goes all the way down the other man's body.

He wants to run his tongue over the chest hair he sees peeking out of Rodney's collar.

He really doesn't want to wait.

"Pig it is," he declares, the words reverberating oddly in his chest. He takes a quick glance at the grill just in case—some habits are impossible to break—and blinks a little: they've finished everything. "You know, it's getting a little chilly out here. It might be warmer inside..."

“Bring dessert,” Rodney says standing and tugging at his hand. “We might need to carb load later.” His grin is dirty and knowing and almost completely at odds with the blush still gracing his face.

John likes it. “Yes sir!” he snaps out and then nearly snaps himself half. He isn’t sure he likes his life leaking through to whatever this is, but Rodney is looking at him expectantly so he reaches out and snags the box by the strings and heads down into the depths of the boat.

A more expensive boat—and any more expensive, John could’ve bought half his father’s stock options—would've had a slightly nicer bedroom, something John hadn't cared about when he rented it. Now he looks at the painfully neat bed, just a double and suddenly far too small, the narrowness of the room and thinks that maybe he should've splurged. Rodney's got a lot of mass to him, and John likes to spread out when he has the time and ability to do so.

Realizing that, oddly, brings home just how strange this whole evening really is. John hadn't gone out looking for some action. It hadn't been on his mind once—not until he saw Rodney, anyway.

He's never been good with one-night hook-ups anyway.

Rodney takes advantage of his stillness to crowd up behind him, skimming his hands down John's hips. "Take these off," he whispers, nuzzling hot and damp behind John's ear. "I didn't get to see you, last time."

Pushing back into the cradle of Rodney’s hips, John says, “You take them off.”

Instead of that, Rodney pushes his hands down and under the soft material until his palms cover the sides of John’s ass and his fingers are settling into the indent his thighs make where they meet his torso. It aches a little, how fast John goes from pretty damn sated to half hard. It's only been a good 25 minutes since they last came, and he’s _really_ looking forward to how long it’ll take to come again. 

Rodney’s chin hooks over his shoulder and their cheeks touch. “I want to fuck you—or you can fuck me—I don’t care just—”

John shudders hard and curses. “No condoms.”

This time, John _feels_ the flush, hot enough to scald against the back of his neck. "I, um, may've brought some? I wasn’t trying to assume, really, it's the price of being arrogant and over-prepared." When John makes a questioning noise, Rodney chuckles, low and embarrassed. "And you were _very_ hot."

Turning is way too difficult, his knees not interested in supporting his own weight. Fortunately, Rodney doesn't mind when he presses their groins together, noses rubbing. "Was very hot?"

"Are very hot. _Is_ very hot, god, are you going to give me a grammar lesson right now?"

The kiss drifts over both of them, gentle and teasing until John can't stand it anymore and leans in, widening his mouth so Rodney can make it sloppy, make it wet, licking promises all over John's teeth. "Not unless it's how to conjugate 'fuck'."

“I fuck,” Rodney pants, shoving John’s sweats down, “you fuck,” his hands trace possessively over John’s ass, fingers sliding in and down and over and over, “we fuck,” John’s shirt goes away. “We’re fucked.” Rodney goes on and fights his way into Johns’s shirt, nipping and biting and sucking. “Fuck.” Rodney says again and they’re back to kissing, pressing their fully bodies together and rubbing a lot, John hisses against the material over Rodney’s groin but that goes away pretty quickly as well.

They’re on the bed before John’s knees can go out, which is fine because that leaves gravity to push them together, John frantic and hot on top of Rodney.

"You know," Rodney grunts, grinning around the bite he leaves, wet and stinging, on John's shoulder, "I think we've done this already. I want to _see_ you."

John's no stranger to encounters with guys, but those are usually fast and furious behind a locked door, or far away where secrecy is still paramount. Even back in high school he'd always been under the shadow of _something_ , starting with his father and ending with his decision to join the military. He's done just about everything two guys can do together, but beds are usually fondly remembered day-dreams.

Which means he's completely unprepared when Rodney grabs his arms and _hauls_ , flipping them so that John's on the bottom, Rodney sitting up on his thighs. The position highlights just how big Rodney is, much broader than John could ever hope to be, and for a guy as nervous and awkward as Rodney was, before, he looks remarkably calm and confident looming above him.

Rodney's grinning, though, crooked and so charged with heat that John forgets about everything but anticipation and trying to breathe.

"Much better," Rodney murmurs, running a hand down John's chest, scraping lightly over his belly button. "You're fit."

Rodney’s so warm, everywhere they touch and John feels cold, shivery even, where they aren’t. He’s tracing down John’s chest and abs and arms and fingers, kissing lighting, sucking on a bit there. Then John notices it, the deliberate attention to the depths and valleys. The lick along the scar line on his side, kiss at the little indent under the deltoid muscle, Rodney is in the middle of sucking on his thumb, the one with the tiny scar and John is gasping as the warm wet pressure takes over his finger in a wholly ungodly way when the urge to tell Rodney why bubbles up.

He wants to say ‘this is who I am’ and to explain each little imperfection. He wants to fuck someone who knows him.

The desire is so sudden he almost chokes on it. Hiding has always been second nature to him, partially because so many of them already knew or, at least, were perfectly happy guessing. But Rodney doesn't know anything about him except that there's a knot of scar-tissue over his hip. He doesn't know it came from a graze during an exercise.

Something must come through his movements because Rodney hesitates with his face hovering over John's shoulder, breath gusting at the crease of his arm. "John? Am I—is something wrong?"

He can’t answer at first because not speaking is as habitual as breathing, so he breathes and Rodney eases back; not moving off his lap yet, but he stops exploring. “I—” John tries and finds his voice hoarse and cracked, “don’t know.”

Now Rodney does slide off him, instead curling over his side. “Are you sick? Do I need to call someone?”

Is he taking his pulse? John smiles and twists to kiss the fingers fumbling around under his jaw. “No.”

"Are you sure?" Rodney frowns, shoulders hunching a touch. "Your heart and breathing are elevated, which doesn't have to be because of, ah, our activities. Before. If you're sick—"

It's that same expression from the bakery, that twist of _oops_ and resignation. It shakes John out of his own head long enough for him to go up on his elbow, kissing Rodney quiet. "I'm not sick. And I liked the elevating-thing. That was good."

"But?" Rodney's still waiting for an ax to come down, clearly.

"No but. I just—airforce." The words hurt as he says them, thorn digging into his tongue and cheeks, part of his mind screaming to just shut up and go back to the making out. But it feels good, too: an expanding circle of perfect calm, like he's hovering at 10 thousand feet, lost in the cool blue sky.

"Um." Rodney blinks, face furrowing. "I'm not exactly sure what you just said, but it sounded like 'hair force'." John laughs and Rodney goes on. “Don’t get me wrong,” he runs a hand through John’s hair, “I wouldn’t be surprised because… wow.”

“Air. Force,” John says more carefully.

“Oh.” Rodney examines him for a few seconds. “So?”

John hides his face in Rodney’s shoulder. How could he explain this? “Major John Sheppard, at your service, not John Sheppard Vacationing Playboy.”

"Are you expecting me to freak out?" Rodney asks, dubiously. "I could, I suppose. I've won awards for my 'histrionics', as a former employer put it. Would that be... useful?"

He's carding his fingers through John's hair, half-curled around them in what's probably an awkward position. John's not exactly comfortable himself, but he's not sure he can look up and find that Rodney's confusion might be a lie, that his eyes are scanning the exits, trying to find the fastest way out.

"No," he whispers. When his lips move, they brush against Rodney's skin like a kiss. "No, I don't want you to have histrionics."

“You sure? I wouldn’t want you to feel alone there, what with the panic attack you’re having at my shoulder.”

That inspires another laugh and John feels himself relax just a little bit. “I just wanted—” John curls a leg around Rodney and pulls him closer, “to be me.”

“Oh—kay.” Rodney says, stroking his hair more. “Doctor Rodney McKay, PhD, PhD, petty, mean, bad with people, my turn-ons happen to include scorching hot Air Force Majors and while I tend to work with the military more often than not, I don’t get a lot of scorching hot Air Force Majors asking me to dinner.”

"How about ones that cook for you?" Rodney's completely blasé acceptance is both unexpected and probably the best reaction he could've hoped for. He actually feels a little foolish, wondering why it's been such a big deal when—

"Wait. You work for the military?"

"Yes? It's more of a contract thing, I'm not actually part of the organization which means I'm fortunately not bound by its more asinine regulations. But, um.” Rodney offers a nervous smile, the muscles in his neck jumping. “Most of my jobs are with the Air Force, as a matter of fact."

They’re both quiet for a little while and John thinks he feel their words hanging in the air, pressing down on him from above. Rodney presses a nose into his hair, nuzzling a bit before settling back down. He’s waiting pretty patiently for a guy who’s got a hard-on pressed tightly into John.

“Look,” Rodney says eventually, voice thrumming through John’s sternum, “I’m really bad with subtle, so if I’m supposed to get dressed now, can you tell me?”

John finally looks up at him and only sees genuine curiosity and suppressed arousal.

And that, oddly, is the hottest thing John's ever seen. There's no pressure, no expectation, and John has to lean up, to cover Rodney's mouth with his own, kissing hard and rough until Rodney matches him. He's clinging to Rodney's shoulders, still, and there's a thought in the back of his mind that maybe he shouldn't, that maybe there should be some distance.

But Rodney tastes only of desire, his hands skimming over John's skin like he's afraid to cross a line he knows he'll never see, and John _wants_ him. He wants all of him.

"You're not leaving." He doesn't know where the growl in his voice comes from, but it makes Rodney shiver agreeably. "I just—I needed to—"

"Yes, yes," Rodney manages between kisses, pushing John onto his back again. "You're a neurotic gay man forced to be in the closet thanks to his employer and you have issues. But I'd really like to fuck you, or be fucked _by_ you, I don't care so long as there are orgasms and I get to see you come. Okay?"

John's hips lift of their own according, rubbing frantically along Rodney's hip. "Uh. Yeah,” he pants. “Sounds good."

Just like that Rodney is back on top of him, finishing minute examination of John’s skin like they had never been interrupted and by the time he slithers down and sucks down John’s dick he’s begging for it, and Rodney’s mouth is more heaven than he could ever have asked for.

“Fuck me,” John whispers. He’ll return the favor tomorrow, he promises himself.

"Oh, my god, that's hot," Rodney babbles into the sweat-soaked skin between John's hip and thigh. "You have no idea, I mean, you sound like _Kermit the Frog_ and that's just not supposed to be sexy, I'm never going to be able to watch the Muppets again, but the way you say it... "

John whimpers, high and tight in the back of his throat. This is what he'd imagined before, that cascade of words sandpapered away to nothing by lust, and it's just as hot as he'd hoped. "Fuck me," he whispers again. "Rodney, fuck me."

And then he's alone. Cold and blinking up at the ceiling wondering what the hell just happened.

"Dammit," Rodney curses from the floor, then pops up, grinning triumphantly with his hair rucked up on one side, making him look endearingly demented. "Found 'em!"

In his hand are a five-pack of condoms and a fist-sized bottle of lube.

The sight sends John onto his back, knees spread. A loud thump, however, makes him push back up onto his elbows, wondering what the hell is going on—and then laughs. Rodney had dropped the lube. 

“Seriously fucking hot.” Rodney snatches the bottle back and then settles down between John’s legs.

Time slows into taffy and it’s years before Rodney’s finger slicks past his entrance a few times, making his toes curl, and then he’s inside inching deeper. John rocks into it, feeling the stretch and burn of it all and everything suddenly ratchets up a notch.

Rodney grunts when he finally slides in, pushing and pushing until John can feel his balls brush up against his ass. He can't breathe, not really, not with Rodney's forehead pressed sweaty and hard to his collarbone, the feel of being split and taken—so damned long since he's allowed himself this—modulating the burn of it until that, too, is just another part of the pleasure.

"You're tight," Rodney whispers, head rolling so he can lave over a nipple, just testing to see if John's sensitive there. 

He isn't, not so much, but it's wet and heat and pressure and John can't help but tighten even further. "Good," he says. He has no idea why, but Rodney seems to enjoy his response, and he clenches down tight, just to see Rodney’s face go slack, and John likes that.

He does it again, wanting to hear Rodney moan, maybe make those porn-noises he'd gifted the food instead of John.

Instead of moaning, though, Rodney _hitches_ and goes still. "If you do that again," he says, low and implacable, "this is going to be over very quickly. You don't want that, do you?"

No, no he doesn't. John shakes his head, fast enough that a droplet of sweat flies onto Rodney's skin. Really, really doesn't want that.

Rodney lets out a broken chuckle. "Okay, okay," he says, and god, John had been saying that _out loud_ , for Rodney to respond to. "Lemme just—" He shifts, balancing his weight on his palms, using thick thighs to push John's legs up, widening him so he has room to thrust.

If Rodney doesn't move soon, John isn't going to be held responsible for his actions.

Finally, John can feel Rodney’s muscles gear up to thrust and when he does John is gone, a haze of pleasure coming down over him that keeps going up and up, and with each careful but firm thrust John feels something let go, sweet and easy as he meets each one. Rodney’s mouth never stills, either mumbling something half incoherent “yes, you, god I want, please, please” or kissing and licking and sucking whatever he can.

For John’s part, he’s mostly hanging on, egging Rodney on, harder, faster, god yes, perfect.

Somewhere back in John's lizard brain, there's a catalog of all the times John's been fucked, all the times he's had time and security enough to allow it, and how good it felt. This is different, not the frantic fumblings of a boy that wants his own pleasure more than John's, not the hurried rutting John's far more used to.

Rodney is _careful_ , hips snapping forward, yes, but with intent, pausing at different angles and intensities, listening to John's reaction before going onto the next combination. Each one is better than the last, hovering around—but never actually brushing against—that perfect, sweet spot and it has to be intentional, has to be, calculated and logical and John hears his laughter before he realizes that he's the one doing the laughing.

"S—scientist," he gasps.

Rodney shifts again, lifting up long enough to smirk and then lean in for another kiss, all teeth and tongue and amusement. "Sex is just mechanics," he whispers, smile growing smug when John shivers and bucks up. "I'm good at mechanics."

Another thrust. “Y—yes, you are.” Two more that he feels to his toes. Rodney grabs a pillow and stuffs it under John’s hips and— “oh god.”

Rodney looks overly satisfied for about three seconds; then John squeezes as best he can and pushes back, and suddenly it’s a little out of control. Rodney just goes and goes and goes and each time he keeps that angle until John can feel it start at the tips of his toes, a tingling that climbs slowly up his limbs.

He's got both arms and legs wrapped around Rodney, by now, and that makes it hard to get a hand between them and he doesn't care. Rodney's found the perfect angle and each thrust has flashes of light flowering in front of his eyes, breathing coming out fast and hot when he isn't sucking on Rodney's tongue, kissing so deeply that it's like a feedback loop.

Somehow, and given the weight sending shockwaves up his hips, John has no idea how, Rodney shifts until he can slide his hands up under John's shoulders, against his neck to bury his fingers in sweaty hair. He pushes back, arms cording with effort, hips losing that perfect rhythm, putting enough space between them that Rodney can see his face.

For once, John doesn't feel exposed. He doesn't feel naked or vulnerable, just horny, waiting to see what Rodney will do next.

What Rodney does is shove his deepest yet, growling something John's brain can't process but his body reacts to instantly; tightening like a bow-string as he starts to come and come _hard._

He can focus for just long enough to see Rodney lose it and shove into him a few more times, but by then his eyes are rolling back and he shudders hard enough that he clamps down on Rodney, legs locking tight, pleasure seeping through each movement. Coming with a hard dick inside him feels more than good and it makes each roll of pleasure that much better.

By the time he's aware of his surroundings again, Rodney is moaning—the porn noises, finally, each note long and lush—and still powering into John's body. It feels different, getting fucked when you're not hard, but John finds that this time, he doesn't mind it. Rodney's careful not to hurt him—or maybe John's just so blissfully relaxed that he can't feel pain, right then. Either way, he sinks back into the bed, into Rodney’s hands, whispering encouragements in Rodney's ear while the other man sweats and fucks and accepts what John's so readily giving him.

When he does finally come, it's with John's hand on his cheek and John's mouth soft against his.

It takes them a little while to untangle. Rodney pulls out carefully and there’s no pain, just a twinge of something that leaves a little after shock of pleasure. Rodney stumbles around to find a trash can and a towel and John drags his arm far enough to the nightstand to grab the bottle of water he’d left there the night before.

Clean, Rodney collapses back on the bed and grabs at the bottle, trading it off with the towel. Then he curls up next to John, offering the bottle back.

The comparison to other encounters is too blatant to be ignored. Normally, this is when John leaves, pulls on his pants and worries about who exits first. Or maybe he'll just slink away, the way he sometimes does, hoping the sound doesn't wake his partner. He's never been good with sticking around, not even when there was a shiny metal band to lie for him. There’s always something they want.

He remembers, suddenly, Nancy, at night, with the lights low and their energy lower, taken from them with the act of being married, weighing down their every move. He remembers her trying to pull it out of him, that something. About his day, his feelings. Reassurance, maybe. But whatever it was, he never could figure it out.

Now, John's eyes are half-shut, curled so that his head and shoulder are pressed into the curve of Rodney's, his arm draped across Rodney's stomach. He doesn't want to move. Rodney's warm, maybe even too warm, but he's comfortable, mumbling wordless noises into John's ear and it's all just ... good.

Really good.

"Stay," John says. The last time someone shared his bed, he was married. He can’t remember ever truly _sleeping_ with a man before and suddenly craves the experience. “Stay.”

Lips curve against his forehead. "I don't think my knees work right now," Rodney confesses, "so you might be stuck with me for a while."

"Mm. Good."

* * * *

When John wakes up it’s dark outside. Some bit of habit reasserts itself and he slips on some pants, quietly padding upstairs to clean up the worst of the mess. It doesn’t take long—he doesn’t actually wash the dishes—but they do get stacked neatly into the sink. He’ll get to it in the morning, probably during breakfast. For now he just grabs two large water bottles and a towel and heads back to the room.

Rodney's pushed up on his elbows when John ducks under the lintel, eyes glittering and pale with reflection. He doesn't say anything, but his jaw is working as he mulls on possible words.

"Just wanted to clean up," John says. He smiles, a little, and realizes that for the first time in a long while, it's a _smile_. Not a smirk. He feels strangely shy, hanging back by the doorway. "Didn't mean to wake you."

"Oh. Yes. We did make a mess, didn't we?" Rodney's head ducks down, classically shy and nervous, and John feels his own odd hesitations melt away.

Climbing onto the bed, John knee-walks until he's by Rodney's side and leans down for a long, slow kiss. It tastes of sleep and comfort, a sort of amicable warmth that could be more. "I'm really bad at this," he confesses when they break apart.  
"I don't normally admit to being bad at anything. It helps that my mistakes are so rare, I suppose and... " Rodney's voice trails off into a little cough. "Um. Me too."

John smiles again, easy laughter bubbling, then he reaches for the water and the still wrapped box from the bakery. “Dessert?”

Rodney’s eyes light up and he makes messy gimme motions at the box. It takes them, two grown men who were used to dealing with complex things in their daily life, five full minutes to fumble the strings off and get at the confectionery heaven inside. Rodney has one half into his mouth before John can blink.

The possibilities that occur to him are pleasant, if impossible at the moment. He's not twenty any longer, a fact he mourns more for now than he really ever has before. "Wow. That's impressive."

"Mmmmm," Rodney hums, black flecks of cake dotting his mouth. "These are good."

His mouth is full, so it takes John a few moments to understand. The words slowly rearrange themselves and by then, John has already leaned forward so he can lick the remaining hints of chocolate away. The combination tastes better. "Yeah, it is."

When Rodney's eyes turn speculative, John leans back. It's only been a day, but already he has some idea of how Rodney's mind works—which means he's not really surprised when he finds himself flat on his back (again), Rodney smearing one of the pastries all over his chest.

There is a section of matted hair sticking up out of the cream and John makes a face even as Rodney bends over and takes his first lick. He is half turned on and half grossed out. Then Rodney licks a nipple and his brain shorts out a little. Who cares about propriety when Rodney can do _that?_

"Who knew Air Force Majors were so squeamish," Rodney chuckles. He doesn't seem to mind where his tongue goes—although it shows a disturbing habit of returning to John's nipples, which are starting to peak from all the attention—and John realizes that Rodney's spread most of the dark mass over the sides of John's chest, where he's a lot smoother.

His neck hurts from staring, so he lets his head fall back with a groan that's only one-part relief of pain. "Not squeamish."

Rodney snaps up a particularly large piece of cake, teeth grazing white-hot lines along John's skin. "Uh huh."

He takes his damn sweet time licking the last of the chocolate and cream and finally John can’t take it anymore—the pastries smell really good and John is feeling a bit puckish—so just as Rodney makes one final really excellent-feeling swipe with his tongue, John pushes up with his feet and flips them neatly. 

Rodney flails a bit, but John settles firmly on top of him and grabs another pastry.

He can't help rubbing against Rodney's thigh, which is thick and heavy and feels good against his cock, and makes sure he takes care to spread the dessert carefully around Rodney's chest. It helps that Rodney isn't quite as hairy as John knows he is. It’s been a while since he’s played with finger-paints and he takes his time, sketching out grades of tempting deliciousness all over Rodney’s skin.

Finally, when John has it arranged, he grins down at Rodney. 

Who is scowling ferociously. "Is the art now to your liking?" he snaps.

"Uh huh." John licks from navel to nipple—sliding around particularly hairy patches because what Rodney might be okay with, John _isnt'_ —where a dollop of cream waits for him. He gets maybe two long, wet licks in when he realizes that Rodney has gone absolutely rigid beneath him.

"Don't stop," Rodney rasps when John lifts his head. "Please, please don't stop."

John doesn’t, because Rodney _that_ taken with the action, _that_ rigid with pleasure is a wicked turn-on in and of itself He spends precious minutes hearing Rodney’s half drawn breaths and half whispered words, rubbing his cock gently against Rodney’s thigh and thinking that three times in one night is really pretty fucking awesome.

Rodney is wet and slippery against John's stomach, nearly pulsing in time with the beat John can taste with each new lick. It's a little disturbing how turned on Rodney is: he's always been into it, enthusiastic and _damned_ good, but this is different. This is Rodney going mindless and shuddery, falling apart under John’s tongue, and that, more than the possibility of sex, is unbelievably heady. John licks again, scraping his teeth over the nub just to see what'll happen.

What happens is Rodney bucks hard enough that John is nearly thrown off, mewling high and tight in the back of his throat. He's too gone to use words, but John gets the intent easily enough.

More. Lots more. As much as John is willing to give.

Grinning, John forgets about eating the rest of the dessert or the way it smears between their bodies. All that matters is making Rodney pour out new noises, becoming even more rigid and desperate while John teases him.

The bottle of lube is close enough to grab and John manages to open it and get some on his fingers without moving too much. Beneath him Rodney is still incoherent and John sucks a nipple into his mouth as his fingers slip down Rodney’s body, trailing wet, glistening lube everywhere, before finally reaching that final curve and drifting _in_ , teasing gently.

The reaction is stunning. Rodney bucks and his hands latch onto John’s arms, like he needs to anchor himself to the bed, like John is making him fly fast and high.

“Ng. Yesss.” Rodney pushes onto his finger like it's as necessary as oxygen.

It's only when John struggles with the condom that he realizes how turned-on _he_ is. He's shaking, breathless with want, and it's like his body has forgotten he's already come twice, demanding relief the same way Rodney's fingers dig their demands into John's skin.

Finally, the condom goes on. He should probably take more time with Rodney, make sure he's ready, except. Except there is no ready, not like this, and time has vanished like soap-bubbles without even a residue to remember it by. There's just Rodney, whining for it, lifting his legs up and to the side, his hands clamped on John's head, holding him in place. It's awkward and messy and John doesn't care about anything at all, because he's finally got himself inside of Rodney, part way and sliding home, and nothing, nothing else matters.

John gets maybe five thrusts in before Rodney lets out something too high-pitched to be heard, echoing through his chest while John licks and sucks and nibbles right where Rodney wants it, the firm peak plumping up even more under John’s tongue. It’s the only warning John has before Rodney goes absolutely still, body clenched so tight that John has to stop, go just as still, because he could come from this, punishingly tight and rippling all around him. He doesn’t, though, biting his lip, biting _Rodney_ , and forcing himself to ride it out while warmth spreads all over his belly.

When Rodney is finally nothing more than a sticky, sweaty, barely shuddering mess, John pushes his knees back as far as he dares and fucks as slow and as steady as he can manage. Which isn’t all that slow or steady.

“God, John, yes, come on, come, come.” Rodney’s barely back to entire words, but John can feel them through his skin and down the base of his spine.

Rodney's hands feel huge, too big as they run up his arms and over his shoulders, down his back to grip his ass in a hold that still feels languid—like Rodney’s fingers aren’t working properly—encouraging him to move. John fucks, shivering with the need to hold himself back, because for once, he wants it long and drawn out. It doesn't have to be fast, or harsh, or furtive. It can be just this, Rodney gasping and pleading for him to do more, "... yeah, that's right, come on, John, come on... ". He can take the time to lick his lips, tasting sweat and chocolate and a tang that means _Rodney._

He can do all of that.

But then Rodney starts squeezing, arching his back and pushing down.

And John remembers that just because he can, doesn't mean he has to.

It's like being shot out of a cannon or taking off over a cliff: John lets himself go, fucking with short, sharp jabs that have Rodney crying out, harmony for John's noises when he finally comes hard and sweet.

He can barely move his limbs as he slides off and to the right. From the way Rodney flops his arms over him, John guesses Rodney is in the same boat. “Sleep now,” John mumbles. 

Rodney, snoring softy, agrees.

* * * *

The morning comes late and lazy, the sun halfway into the sky when they finally move and unstick themselves from the sheets and each other. The shower is huge. It’s what he paid extra for instead of the bedroom and they shove themselves inside it and let the water do most of the work. They can’t really have the extremely long shower out here on the boat, but they’re too tired and hungry anyway.

Sandwiches are the word of the day and John and Rodney take turns cleaning up from last night and piling high various cold cuts onto the leftover bread. It’s easy in gratifying ways.

They stare out at the Puget Sound, water warm and blue spread out around them, lapping up onto the coastline in tiny, wet increments. It’s soothing and hypnotic and it eases away most of the tension John feels. He could learn to like the water a lot.

They make it through the whole meal before the struggle to not say anything finally gets to Rodney. "So," he blurts. "I, um. Thank you? Is that appropriate here?"

"Probably should be me thanking you," John points out. Anybody else and John might feel offended, remembered encounters and dirty implications. Not from Rodney, though: he means it only as genuine gratitude. "You didn't have to come."

"Have you _seen_ yourself?" Rodney snorts. He's toying with a stray piece of crust, eyes on the table for all the derision in his voice. "I, um. You're on leave, obviously. I'm assuming. Since you mentioned your—that is, are you going to be here a while longer?"

John's smile is syrup slow, sticky and warm. It feels good. "Yeah, Rodney. I'm here for a little."

“I’ve never had a real fling before,” Rodney says, eyeing John slowly. “Might be fun?”

A week, well, six days, of really good sex with someone he likes without having to muffle, hide, secret away—so long as they travel away from shore every night—or lie… It sounds almost hedonistic. “Could be.”

There’s a sound, the low squawk of a flying bird and Rodney’s eyes focus to the left and out the window. “I’ve never spent this much time on the water.” His empty hand lifts and the tips of his fingers touch the window they’re looking out of. “I didn’t know nature could be this—” He stops himself and John can see something in Rodney’s head reassert itself. “I do have to do some work,” Rodney hedges.

John smiles. “I’ve got to sleep sometime.” 

"Oh. Yes, well, that works out really nicely, doesn't it?"

John leans forward until he's close enough to feel Rodney's breath on his face. "Meet back here tonight? Say seven?"

"I'll be here," Rodney promises and kisses him.

* * * *

By the time John is back on base he’s so relaxed he feels like his clothes might melt off if he’s not careful.

“Well, someone had a good leave!” Dex comes up behind him and slings an arm over his shoulder, heavy and intrusive. “What? No hickies?”

Well there had been one, but it had happened much earlier in the week. John’s pretty sure most of the marks left on his body are fairly innocuous. “Just did a little fishing.” John says wanting to keep all parts of the week to himself. “Fresh air is relaxing.”

John feels the calm buzz all the way through to his next assignment.

* * * *

The air is cold. All the technology in the world and John can still tell that it’s minus eleventy billion outside. The super top secret outpost even more so what with being practically cut into the rock and ice itself. The cafeteria feels a little deranged with its orange plastic chairs and brown formica tables in the middle of a large cavern. John thinks about some of the best coincidences in the world and how they’re always too little, too late. Three years ago, he’d have appreciate this. Hell, that’s when he’d still fantasized about it, about being assigned to some base somewhere and turning a corner and running into Rodney. He even told himself it wasn’t really about the sex, that he missed all of the stuff from in between, too. The odd thing is, he _does_ miss those things.

It’s just that working with someone is entirely different than fucking them six ways from Sunday and a few in between.

Rodney looks older, which is expected, but the increased slant of his mouth tells of unhappy stories. John wants to ask about them, maybe see how _he_ looks in Rodney's eyes after the last few years. But the oddness of where he is and who he's with keeps him quiet.

"I checked up on you," Rodney blurts out. The sound of it, rushed and harried with that undercurrent of nervousness, is so familiar that John's shoulders tighten up, aching a little. The right one never was the same, after a that crash. "Not in a stalker way, because who has the time to be that obsessive, but hacking into the Air Force databases is like jumping into a kiddie pool and I have incredibly poor impulse control at the best of times, really, I—" Rodney blinks and stares at the table. "It wasn't a lot. I just kind of kept track of where you were."

John has no idea if that's a tacit hint at why John's at the ass-end of nowhere or a many-worded declaration of love. The middle road's always the easiest, so John shrugs and leans back in his chair. "Okay."

“I thought about contacting you,” Rodney says into his coffee, the scent permeating the entire conversation with sense of déjà vu. “But it always seemed like a bad idea.”

John’s not mad about it. Mostly he still feels like there’s a tiny hole in his chest, slowly filling up. Older and grumpier though he is, this is still _Rodney_ and John never did have barriers with him. “S’ok.”

Rodney nods and then quickly starts shaking his head. “I just can’t believe you’re here. Really _here_. I never expected to actually… My life is not normal,” he concludes, a little weakly.

That’s when John loses it, just puts his head down on the table and laughs into his arms. Rodney gives him about thirty seconds and then pokes at his shoulder. John looks up and shakes his head. “The _aliens_ are totally fine, but what happened between us is _weird_.”

Rodney snickers. “Yes.”

When John's laughter finally stops, his stomach feels hollow and his skin stretched paper thin.  "I might not say yes." 

Rodney's face doesn't fall, but the laughter drifts out of everything but those blue, blue eyes. "Normally, I tend to call those who don't immediately join the program morons. Or rather, I start with morons and it goes pretty much down hill from there." Rodney meets his gaze steadily, something not many people have done for the last couple years. "But in your case, I think I wouldn't respect you if you didn't think about this. It's not necessarily a step up."

John nods, because it isn't. Glorified lightswitch is maybe even worse than taxi-driver. There’re always people who want to go someplace, anyplace. Given what he's been told, there may not even be any switches for John to flip when they get there. If they get there.

But. John thinks about his family, the terse, unforgiving missive he'd received after his letter of reprimand, and the ability to go far, far away from them.

With Eyelashes, whose eyelashes are still as thick as they were long ago, looking at him with barely disguised hope on that too-expressive face. It's been a long time since someone's wanted him, and John's reasonably certain it has nothing at all—well, not much—to do with sex.

"I'm bringing movies with me," Rodney confirms. "Your inability to sit through _Mothra_ is something we're going to have to correct. If you come, that is."

A wave from the corner of the room catches his eyes: O'Neill is ready to depart, finally. "I'll get back to you," John says and jogs over to the elevator up, aware that his steps feel lighter, shoulders lowering like stress he hasn't even noticed is just rolling off, leaving him more himself than he's been in a damned long time.

And that, maybe, is reason enough.

Behind him, Rodney’s voice raises above the din “ …no! Put the precious ancient console down!”

John smiles.


End file.
